


1962

by matchka



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: F/M, Fic War, Gen, Missing Scene, fic snippet, patriots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 02:09:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchka/pseuds/matchka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Very short fic snippet based on a Fic Wars prompt from Slythgeek: The Boss goes to the U.S.S.R. in 1962 thinking she's going to have a chance to reunite with her son... only to find out that the government has other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1962

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Slythgeek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slythgeek/gifts).



The boy in the photograph has his mother’s blonde hair, his father’s blue eyes. He’s got fine Slavic bones and an upright American posture, proud and fierce, with his father’s knowing smile and his mother’s serious gaze.

They kept the name she gave him eighteen years ago. Adam. Adam Timofei - the latter after his father, who has never seen this photograph, although she hopes she can do one better. There’s a reason they called her here, furnished her with this picture - never in all the years she has been apart from her son have they sent her a photograph. And she’s willing to bargain with them, if she has to. But she will be reunited with Adam. Even if that means putting a bullet in each and every one of their hearts.

Of course, that presupposes that the Philosophers have hearts.

She has not been to Tselinoyarsk in many years, but the great grey-walled fortress is as ugly a canker-sore as she remembers. The personnel are different. They have a monster in charge now, she’s heard, a man blessed (or cursed, depending on who you speak to) with lightning in his veins. Supposedly, he’s taken a shine to her son, who is climbing the ranks of Colonel Volgin’s army with alarming speed.

She’s not much interested in this Volgin.

She approaches a rope-strung bridge. Damp leaf-litter rustles underfoot. The wet-earth scent of the forest reminds her of summer nights, and stars through the trees like shattered glass, and words whispered in Russian - skin on skin, a man she shouldn’t have loved but couldn’t stop, a man whose smile could cut diamond and melt the hearts of even the most stubborn Yankee.

A man who stands in the centre of the rope bridge.

She blinks. A mirage, surely? An apparition in the mist. But he’s still there when she opens her eyes, and a cold realisation gnaws at her bones, crawls in her gut. The gun in her hand no longer feels like an opportunity.

“Voyevoda,” he says. (His name for her. Others use it now, but it was his first.)

“Sorrow,” she says. And then: “Timofei.”

That smile. That brilliant smile, lighting up his eyes, creasing into crow’s feet (her fingers, tracing each line, each scar.) Only this time it’s tinged with a knowing sadness. An acceptance of a tragedy he has no doubt foreseen. Which means he’s kept it from her.

“It’s me or you, Voyevoda,” he says.

She nods. “What if I choose neither?” she asks.

“Adam.” He doesn’t need to explain. The photograph makes sense now. She has fallen in love, as they knew she would; how could she not? He is half of each parent, a perfect divide, a sullen teenager with the joy of battle in his eyes.

The Sorrow spreads his arms slowly, raising them outward.

“It’s already chosen,” he says. “Make it quick.”


End file.
